


The Grace of Second Chances

by TearsofDis



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J.R.R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Canon, Canon Divergence, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-10
Updated: 2015-03-10
Packaged: 2018-03-17 04:55:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3516074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TearsofDis/pseuds/TearsofDis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes those who do not ask for redemption find it in those who offer none.<br/>Post BOTFA alternate ending.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Grace of Second Chances

**Author's Note:**

> What can I say? I knew the ending to BOTFA was coming, but dreaded it anyway, and dread leads to "What if?"
> 
> This is my first non-academic turn at writing in many years, and began as a stand alone, although the characters may insist on coming back for more.  
> Thank you, Mr. Tolkien and Mr. Jackson for letting me play in your collective universe. The characters and setting are, of course, yours. Any mistakes are mine.
> 
> Many thanks to WriterChick, Marissa, and Rhea for your support, encouragement, and editing skills. Many thanks also go to my students who reacquainted me to the world of fan fiction.
> 
> If you like it, let me know. If not, let me know that as well. Both kinds of feedback will serve to improve the next effort.

A single bead of blood splashed upon the ice; a scarlet gem that quickly cooled and froze. The first was followed by another and another, each coming faster than the last. Joining the others, they spattered a grim mosaic on the frozen tapestry of white. 

“This. This is how I end,” Thorin vaguely thought, struggling to his knees, then slowly back upon his heels, before unsteadily rising to his feet. He drew in a long, raking breath through his teeth.

Were his nephews dead? 

Both of them…his only heirs? 

Fili, yes, he’d witnessed it. 

Did Kili live? 

Unbidden, a promise made so long ago to his beloved sister Dis, sprang into his mind. Someone would have to tell her. A wave of hollow grief rushed into his throat. 

“I am sorry, my sister, so sorry. I could not bring him home to you. I could not keep him….forgive me,”

Yet at the same time he was relieved that he would not be the one to tell her. He knew his sister all too well. Her unforgiving anguish would be unbearable. 

Moving around the fetid corpse of Azog, he halted forward numbly. Far beyond the heights of Ravenhill, the Lonely Mountain stood darkly stark against the pink and copper streams of waning light. Far beneath him, the walls of Erebor were latticed with the gathering shadows of the coming night. 

Far below, on the hovering desolation of the battlefield, the storm had shifted. The orcs were running, streaming back toward whatever foul place they’d come from. The armies of the dwarves and men, elves and eagles were in close pursuit.

So many dead, he thought. 

It was so wrong.

I was so wrong. 

He staggered back and fell. His strength was gone. His will was going. 

This. This is how I end. 

Was that a sound in the distance? Muffled crying came from across the river, upwards and to his right. 

Was that the She-elf? 

Then Kili must be good and truly dead. 

The sadness that threatened him was held at bay by one small mercy. Kili was dead - but he was not alone. 

Perhaps, Thorin thought, bloody-minded to the last, at least that elf was worth something. Give her the blasted gems that bastard tree shagger Thranduil so wanted! 

His breath caught sharply in his chest as a new stab of pain radiated through him. Where was Fili? Where was Dwalin? Was he dead, too? Or was he watching over Fili? He winced at the thought of Fili lying there alone beneath the ruined tower.

I am sorry, my nephew. You deserved better. You had the makings of a king.

Exhausted, he stared at the sky, thoughts drifting. Fili… Kili… 

Thranduil? Should I forgive him? I should, but…no. Thorin pulled the grudge around him like a favored blanket. No, he thought grimly. He remains a bastard. 

He heard the shuffling of footsteps on the ice, sliding toward him. Small steps, light steps, uncertain and scrambling steps.

“Thorin!” 

Bilbo’s worried face appeared above him. He felt the hobbit’s hands lifting at his rendered armor and search the wounds beneath. He saw the flickering change of expression which told him what he already knew. Thorin smiled weakly. 

His hobbit…his friend was here. How, in his eternity of empty halls, had this unlikely creature slipped past all defenses with little more than simple kindness?

“Thorin!” 

The burglar’s voice was distant. The coldness of ice and shock crept though his body. Everything seemed to fade into the distance until the hobbit’s insistent shaking drew him back. There was something he must do. What was it? Bilbo is here…Bilbo… think!

The painful cough coiled like a dragon through his chest…settling in…staying… a different kind of fire; a different kind of death. Thorin’s eyes widened then focused again on the face above him, finding kindness and denial pleading back at him in equal measure. 

“What happened on the wall, the words I spoke….forgive me…”

Bilbo’s eyes softened reassuringly.

“I am so sorry….that I have led you in such peril….”

His friend’s lips tightened. “No!” he said, emphatically shaking his head. “I am glad to have shared in your perils, Thorin.” Bilbo edged a hand beneath the dying dwarf’s shoulders just enough to lift his head onto his lap. His face struggled in false composure. “Each and every one of them. It is far more than any Baggins deserves!” 

Green, Thorin thought randomly, listening to his friend’s receding voice. Blue eyes streaked green, like the granite of Erebor. He found the strength, to smile again, just a little. 

“Farewell, Master Burglar. Go back to your books….and your armchair.” How had he never noticed the green of his friend’s eyes? Thorin swallowed weakly, and took a shallow, shuddering breath that barely lifted his chest. His fingers tightened on the hobbit’s arm with sudden urgency. 

“Plant your trees, watch them grow.” Thorin’s voice sank into a whisper. “If more people…valued home above gold…this world would be a merrier…..place….” 

Infinitesimally, darkness veiled him, hovering as pain and sight receded into nothing. He felt untethered and at peace there in the darkness listening to that distant pleading voice.

“No! No! No! Don't you dare!” Bilbo shook him. “The eagles, Thorin! Look! The eagles have come!” 

It was quiet for a moment before a long, slow wail gathered strength and broke into an open keen. Below him, just out of reach, he could see the dust caked curls of Bilbo’s shuddering head. He watched the sobbing hobbit hold a silent body in his arms: his body. His friend’s shoulders shook with grief. 

Mahal! He thought, embarrassed by the display, Stop! Stop! Stop this crying!  
He reached down to shake Bilbo. As if struck, his friend sat back in startled silence. After a moment he let out a long breath, and stared numbly at Thorin’s sightless eyes. He hesitated, glanced around, then reached out to close them. Finally he sat back, drawing into himself. Silent tears silvered his face. Swallowing hard, he wiped them away with the torn sleeve of his coat, staring into emptiness.

Gandalf approached, looked on, and settled quietly beside Bilbo, wisely saying nothing. Out came the pipe. For what seemed an eternity, the wizard fussed with it, scraping out old ash and filling it anew. Lighting reluctant pipe-weed, he drew a breath in until at last a curl of smoke drifted skyward. All the while, he waited patiently for Bilbo to regain his composure. 

Even the wizard looked tired.

“Thorin.”

A voice. Thrain’s voice! Thorin whipped around, searching the silent void around him. 

“Father?” He had not thought his father dead!

Somewhere in the darkness he could hear the distant pounding of hammers on anvils. Was it time? Was it time to take his place in the great halls of Aulë? He glanced back at the scene beneath him. One by one the members of his company had struggled up the icy hill and down upon the frozen river, surrounding his fallen form. Some dropped to the ground at the sight of his body. Others stood quietly in their own private misery, waiting. Thorin made a mental tally as they arrived. All of them! Relief flooded him. It was a miracle that all had lived! Just as quickly, the relief he felt flared into frustration and his old habit of command returned. 

“One of you go! Go stay with Fili!” he ordered, but no one moved.

The pounding of the hammers on the anvil grew louder.

“They cannot hear you.” Thrain said. Thorin turned back toward the voice, and gestured with frustration toward the scene below him. 

“Father, I will not leave the boys alone…” 

This time, through the darkness came another voice, calm and certain. 

“Uncle, I am here. We are here,” 

Suddenly his nephews stood beside him, grinning, happy. Whole. He threw his arms around them both, smiling broadly, resting his forehead against each of theirs in turn. 

“Uncle!” 

Kili nodded toward the scene beyond. They turned and stared with quiet interest at the sad tableau below. Balin, ever sensible, was talking quietly to his stoic brother of arrangements to bring them off the hill.

After a time, Fili drew in a breath and asked off-handedly, “Where is she?” Kili grinned back at his brother.

“Still up on the heights, crying over me.” He shot Thorin a quick sideways glance, and lowered his voice, “Thranduil’s up there, too.” He nudged Fili’s shoulder, looking pleased. “She kissed me!” He rocked up on his toes then settled back, happy as a puppy to have finally found true love.

“You’re dead!” Fili answered incredulously, reading his little brother’s mind. “What does it matter? It's not as if the two of you could – you know.” How could his brother be so fierce a warrior on one hand and such an exasperating idiot on the other?

“Yes, but. She kissed me! She loved me! I knew it!” Kili looked happily at his brother, his brows lifting with obvious excitement….which quickly disappeared when he caught the disapproval on his uncle’s face. 

“What would your mother think?” Thorin spat darkly, “Kissing elves! We raised you better than that!”

“But - I was already dead! I couldn’t help…..” His voice trailed off dejectedly, “…it wasn’t…” He caught the warning look that Fili threw at him. Even in death it was best not to provoke his uncle. 

Below them the son of Thranduil approached from across the ice field. Thorin’s eyes narrowed. Legolas! Why was he even here at such a time, intruding on the grief of dwarves? No elf should bear witness to this. Thorin watched unhappily. Yes, Legolas had saved his life with well aimed arrows more than once upon the ice field. Yes, Legolas had given back the Orcrist, but only in the heat of battle. If he hadn’t stolen it to begin with! If Thranduil hadn’t stood before the gates of Erebor with an army demanding – demanding those white gems…..if Thranduil had sent troops up Ravenhill….if only…..

Thorin watched as the elf made a gesture of respect to the gathered company, spoke to Balin, and then let his eyes slide over his own motionless body.

He winced. The pounding! The pounding on the anvils!! Oh, would that it would stop!

The hammers suddenly rang silent.

Thrain appeared beside him. Thorin drew himself up, standing just a little taller, squaring his shoulders.

“Father! I am ready.” 

Thrain said nothing. He glanced instead at his grandsons, gave them a look that broached no argument, and motioned with his head for them to leave. He waited in silence while they did, aware of his son’s confusion.

Thorin shifted beside him, unease building. Thrain turned to his son.

“You are not coming.” He rested a hand on Thorin’s shoulder. 

Startled, wounded, Thorin flinched, stared uncomprehendingly into his father’s eyes, brows drawing together, an angry protest rising to his lips. The hand on his shoulder squeezed firmly. 

“You have amends to make, my son.” Thrain said pointedly and simply vanished. The unanswered questions that shimmered in the air between them fell abruptly and lay at Thorin’s feet.

Amends? For what? I sacrificed my life! What more must I do? 

Beneath him, Legolas turned to leave. He moved around the grieving dwarves, to begin the long trek off of Ravenhill. He gave a final glance at the dwarf king’s body, and stopped abruptly. His eyes narrowed, seeing with a peculiar clarity that which only elven eyes could see. 

There. At the throat. 

A whispered pulse.


End file.
